WHEN THE three hundred delegates, advisers, assistants and observers of the North Atlantic Treaty Organization meet in Ottawa next week, they’ll have at least one question on their minds which can’t possibly go on the agenda: How long can we hope to keep General Eisenhower as commander of NATO forces in Europe? Will he be resigning at the end of the year to run for President of the United States?
ABOUT six months ago I predicted that nothing could prevent a heavy socialist defeat when the next British election took place. There were a number of letters from Canada which implied I was imagining a vain thing and suggested that prejudice had been allowed to influence my judgment.
ONE SULTRY afternoon this summer an interdepartmental committee was discussing the twin problems of housing and inflation. Financial wizards argued to disgruntled housing officials that it’s no use giving easier credit to home builders.
Sir. James Dunn, who controls a steel empire, a big lake shipping line and the destiny of Sault Ste. Mare, is also famous for the lavish life he leads in two-Canadian mansions, a Riviera villa and a permanent hotel suite
SIR JAMES HAMET DUNN, Baronet, a spry and dashing septuagenarian of St. Andrews, N.B., is in his own way as rare a bird as the Ipswich sparrow or the Hudsonian Godwit. Time has dealt harshly with the legendary and once-hardy species to which he belongs the freewheeling multimillionaire who stakes out.
A young girl thought this Maclean’s editor looked like Gus Hall, most wanted Communist fugitive. So for five hours in Jackson, Miss., he was held under police guard, searched, questioned and fingerprinted, and told his Canadian passport “doesn’t mean a thing”
I’M ALWAYS being mistaken for someone else, no one person but a succession of men whose acquaintances see a close enough resemblance to encourage them to speak to me. As a result, I’m used to being hailed as “Joe” or “Harry” or some other person.
What does a woman do when she's left a widow with three children? Mrs. Charlotte Smith, of Toronto, look her daughter Gladys, turned her into the world’s first movie star, and won her a million dollars a year
<p>ONCE UPON a time there was a little working girl from Toronto who made a million dollars a year. Her name was Gladys Smith, but she went by her great-grandmother’s name, Mary Pickford. She earned and still has about twenty million dollars, which she got before income taxes reached out for little rich girls.</p>
IN THE intensely complicated pattern of western Europe one riddle stands out above all others: What is the source of Communist strength? What hideous magic is possessed by the discredited conspiracy called Communism that it continues to control more than a quarter of the voting power in France and Italy?
That was Beverly. Her life touched mine and I was marked forever. She was as lovely as a star — and just as far away
THREE ROWS AHEAD OF ME AND SEVERAL seats to the right sits a girl. I don’t know who she is, but I can’t take my eyes off her. She must feel the weight of them hanging to those short taffy-blond curls the breeze is dabbling with. Twice already she’s turned around and almost met my stare.
Everybody was in such a rush pushing and snarling, that John Ewing, streetcar operator, sometimes thought he was going nuts. Then one day he saw the way out for him and snarled right back
THREE YEARS AGO I quit my job as a Toronto streetcar operator, sold my home in west Toronto, and moved my wife, my four kids and my shattered nerves to two hundred and seventy acres of bush, rock and shore line on Lake Manitouwabing in Ontario’s Parry Sound district.
Every time you buy a pack of cigarettes a few more cents jingle into Delhi, Canada’s fast-growing tobacco capital. Most of it goes into the pockets of immigrant farmers who, not long ago, couldn’t afford to smoke
AT FIRST GLANCE down the main street you’d hardly call Delhi, Ont., a storybook town. Winding roads and unpretentious houses sprawl idly over a low plateau ninety miles southwest of Toronto. Citizens clomp along the cement sidewalks in overalls and dusty boots.
Joe was the sparkplug of the Super Duper, till he fell for Angie. So the boss hired Angie too. Then even the profits fell
MR. T. PHILLIPS, owner and manager of the Super Duper Market, dreamed a lot. Most of his dreams had to do with women, in long lines, pushing bright carriages through the maze of shelves in his store, hundreds of arms reaching out and snatching goods from these shelves, and putting them into the carts.
An evening in a bath with a good book can be as hard on the nerves and physique as wrestling a grizzly — depending on the temperature of the water, where it comes from and how you react to it. Only Eskimo can be sure of not doing the wrong thing: he never takes a bath
IN CASE YOU’RE thinking of taking a bath, stop and consider the case of the Ottawa store manager who reported recently to his doctor that he felt tired all the time. “And don’t tell me,” he added, “that I would have more pep if I got more sleep. I sleep eight or nine hours a night and swallow every kind of vitamin pill the druggist sells.”
BOB COLLINS found Delhi so interesting that long after his article, Tobacco Town, on page 20, was finished and on its way to the printers he would come in with added snippets of information that he had come across. We were able to get the best of this into the story but we still have plenty left—enough to convince us that Delhi is one of those interesting towns you could write a book about.
APACHE DRUMS: The redskins, instead of being shown as nature’s oppressed noblemen, are out-and-out hellions as of yore in this fair-enough western. Slow at first, it’s lively at the finish. THE BROWNING VERSION: Excellent is none too generous a word for this thoughtful and moving British drama about a middle-aged schoolteacher (Michael Redgrave) and his painful efforts at self-appraisal.
In stores and stations and even right at home those whom the Lord hath joined together often just can’t find each other
W. F. MIKSCH
RECENT news item told how Dr. W. Grey Walter, of the Burden Neurological Institute at Stapleton, England, built a pair of mechanical turtles with electronic brains, and now they have fallen in love. (In love with each other, that is—not with Dr. Walter.)
A lowering of my spouse’s lid, A nudge, a squint, two bumps, Inform me whether I'm to bid In clubs, spades, hearts, no trumps. Our marriage has a split command, Which works out very fine: At home I do her bidding and At bridge games she does mine.
The wind that clambered to a gale And ripped five shingles from the eaves, And coiled a long, tormenting tail Among the agitated leaves — Has not dislodged this cobweb strand Of cable stretched in shining length From post to door, a swaying band Of delicate and fragile strength; Here lies the core of victory: Enduring flexibility.
Just like women with their new season’s hats, it seems that most auto-makers just have to find a new look for their cars each year. Can you name these models from their grilles? We give you the correct year and four choices of make. The answers are on page 45.
He walked in, tall and smiling, when he’d knocked, And stood by the open door; the buoy rocked And rolled with the slack tide, restless as a bell On a pastured cow. “We may he having a spell Of weather . . . wind is moving around tonight, Kind of up-ending.
Remember when— The business woman was the working girl. The alcoholic was the souse. The mentally retarded student was the dunce. The juvenile delinquent was the brat. The junior executive was the straw boss. The receptionist was the counter girl.
FORMAL GOWN ISSUE STIRS BLATANT FUROR, NEIGHBORS TESTIFY Sister Hews to Strict Party Line Dress for Prom AGE VERSUS MATURITY DOMINANT ARGUMENT IN CHOICE OF DRESS Should Reach Floor Today, Daughter Ha-Ha’s Hem DRESS CAUCUS DRAGS ON PLUNGING NECKLINE Dad Says Dior, Fath Need Both, Plus Scaffold
August — the month of picnics! Each weekend we try to have something special planned for the whole family — an overnight, if we are at the cottage and weather will permit, or a trip to some picnic area if we are home. Such excursions should be enjoyed, by all young Canadians with such excellent beauty spots so close at hand.
DR. WILLIAM DUNLOP was a fine salty Scot who settled on the east bank of the river Maitland, near Goderich, Ont., long before confederation. As a member of the Canadian Parliament he was once ordered by the Speaker to amend his statement that his opponent in a heated debate “was not fit to carry guts to a bear.”
My very sincere congratulations for your courageous editorial on Korea (August 1). I have discussed this piece with many friends and their reaction is: “Somebody had to say it, somebody at last makes sense out of the whole confused mess.” I’m glad Maclean’s takes the lead.
Bring 'em Back Alive—When a woman paints her face she’s sophisticated; when an Indian paints his face he’s savage—but really it is the woman who is dressed to kill.— London Farmers’ Advocate. Valse Triste—Too much dancing is likely to affect the heart, according to a doctor.
WHEN the municipal clerk at McCreary, Man., went on his summer vacation he left a sign on his office door giving ratepayers complete instructions on where to conduct their business while he was away: For registration of births and deaths see Dr. Barr.